


Move

by justonemore11



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mystrade Valentine's Calendar 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-06
Updated: 2018-02-06
Packaged: 2019-03-14 10:55:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13588593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justonemore11/pseuds/justonemore11
Summary: In which Greg and Mycroft enter the London property market and narrowly manage to avoid being crushed by centuries of urban decay and renewal, and decades of family baggage.(This is an addendum to my story "Not So Final", but can be read as a standalone piece.  I think you will find it resonant if you have ever bought a place to live, made out a will, moved to a new city and had to choose a neighborhood, and/or have parents.)Thanks again to Mottlemoth for organizing





	1. Chapter 1

It wasn’t a single moment or conversation that had decided them, but rather a series of conversations and realizations. 

Greg was spending more nights at Mycroft’s place in Richmond, and was becoming far more familiar with the Overland than he liked, having decided that the District Line on the Tube was not to be considered for all the tea in China. He drove some nights, and those nights made him long for the District Line. 

It was worth it, though. When they decided to make a go of it, the first couple of nights he spent at Mycroft’s were a bit confused. They were both trying to find their footing without the distraction of Eurus, Sherlock, a case, the criminal underworld of London, and approximately 16 geopolitical hotspots worldwide. Mycroft had tentatively issued an open invitation, and Greg had begun to take him up on it. Greg generally arrived late enough that Mycroft was home, but was working in his study. 

“Don’t let me keep you,” Greg had said that first night. He never really knew how important Mycroft’s work was on any given day, and he didn’t want this relationship to be a liability. Mycroft had looked uncertain, and then had returned to his study. Greg had read a bit, watched some football highlights on his phone, and then retired to bed. Mycroft had crawled in at 2:00 am, trying not to wake Greg. After three days of this, Greg had knocked on Mycroft’s door at 11:00 pm. When Mycroft told him to enter, Greg had crossed the room and walked around behind the desk chair. “Restoring the empire can wait a few hours, can’t it?” Greg had said, while rubbing Mycroft’s shoulders. Mycroft had stiffened at first, and then relaxed. 

“Yes, yes it can.” And that was it. Greg was able to coax Mycroft to bed at a halfway decent hour whenever he was there. Greg secretly considered it yet more evidence that Mycroft was the sensible brother.

Mycroft, though, wasn’t the only one benefiting from the arrangement. Some nights, when he’d had a horrible day and night, filled with dead bodies, freezing, damp crime scenes, and morgue vans that weren’t free for pickup until 1:30 am, he’d return to Mycroft, who was always still up and usually waiting to hand him a glass of Scotch and water and to coax him out of his jacket and tie and into a warm bed. So, worth even the District Line then. Still, if Mycroft’s place weren’t so far out, they would have even more time together. 

Mycroft too was feeling the effect of the distance between them and was beginning to feel that time spent in his car reading Parliamentary Committee transcripts could now be more profitably spent with Greg (especially since so many MPs and Lords said the same thing over and over. Really, they could each just dress a mannequin in tweed, put a phone with a recorded message in the pocket, and head off to the golf course with no one the wiser). The few times that he had stayed over at Greg’s flat in centrally located Stockwell, he had been astonished at how little time had lapsed between standing in his office perusing aerial maps of Kandahar and being pushed backward onto Greg’s bed. The fact that the following morning, Greg could announce he was going out for provisions and return 15 minutes later with fruit, pastries, and steaming cups of tea was further food for thought.

As much of an oasis as Greg’s flat was, it had several qualities that Mycroft couldn’t abide: microscopic, modern, and mauve. There was barely room for Greg’s possessions, let alone his own more extensive wardrobe. Greg’s tiny table could only accommodate one laptop. Mycroft also preferred a building with some character and period detail. What was the point of living in London otherwise? Then there was the bath, which was simply not to be borne. The color, the exposed pipes, the fact that the door to the bath and the door to the medicine cabinet couldn’t be open at the same time - insupportable.

Greg could see all of these points. Maybe it was time to move. The fact that they would be doing it together was just sort of taken for granted. The idea that they would be apart for long periods seemed increasingly unthinkable. Too, Greg could see that Mycroft was feeling nervous in suburbia. Sherlock and John’s little stunt, and the threat of Eurus had left him with some residual anxiety about his home. He kept double checking the doors, regarding every new neighbor with suspicion. Greg tested the waters a bit

“You know, when I did a couple of stints undercover, we always tried to have a lot of people around when we did a meet up with an informant or a player. It was easier to emerge from a crowd, and then disappear back into it.”

“Safety in numbers, and all that?” said Mycroft.

“Something like that,” said Greg. Then later, “Don’t think I’d go back to Dartmoor. Just too much open space. You just felt too alone in the world.” Mycroft had smiled grimly.

“I suppose the synthetic drugs didn’t help. If I didn’t apologize at the time...We didn’t really know what he was up to...”

“No, no. Just ruling it out as a potential mini-break spot,” Greg covered. God, as if Mycroft didn’t find his tastes a bit plebeian already, he was now sounding like Bridget Jones. Still, it had worked, somehow. The next time Mycroft had broached the subject, he had said,

“I think a move closer in might be the thing, from a security standpoint. Hiding in plain sight, so to speak. With all of the insanity of London, we’ll hardly stand out”

So they drew a 4 kilometer radius around Big Ben and started looking. Mycroft at first had insisted on a detached house, but that seemed almost impossible, and then he began to think it might be better to go with semidetached and buy both halves or to buy two terrace houses at the end of a block, with one as a sort of security buffer. Greg wanted a decent local and a few shops within walking distance, which didn’t seem much to ask. He had, though, gotten used to the parks and green spaces near Mycroft’s place and the many possibilities for a quiet run. He would miss the Portuguese bakery near his current flat, but not the three or four near misses with delivery vans when he went for a twilight jog. Coupled with Mycroft’s dislike of crowds, that meant they were aiming at leafier neighborhoods, as opposed to ones bustling with nightlife and large blocks of flats.

The finances were not completely straightforward, but not insurmountable. Greg was floored by the sums Mycroft mentioned as the upper limit on the asking price, but he had sort of expected that. Greg also wanted to contribute, and Mycroft was surprised to discover that he was certainly able to do so, his police salary notwithstanding. Greg and his wife had bought property early in both their marriage and the market and had sold at a fairly handsome profit. The silver lining to the divorce, Greg had said, with silver linings available even in Walthamstow. He had set the proceeds by, assuming he’d buy again at some point, but he had been in no hurry to commit himself to anything at that point, not even a neighborhood. He’d then proceeded to sign six month leases on his flat for four years running.

Mycroft had at first wanted Greg to diversify and put his money in the market, albeit someplace conservative. Greg had put it to Mycroft that a joint venture had to be joint. Mycroft conceded this point, as he implemented it at the negotiating table almost daily. Perhaps then, Mycroft suggested, they could broaden their search to include some places that needed renovation, given that Greg had ready cash to cover such work.

With that decided, their criteria seemed simple enough, and they embarked on their journey with enthusiasm, thinking it would be a short skip and a hop to a nice house, so that they could get on with the business of living.

It soon became apparent that they each had a lot of hidden criteria that they hadn’t admitted to themselves.

First, there were the neighborhood choices. Greg was still reeling from the sorts of neighborhoods Mycroft was suggesting. In his mind, these places were School-trips-and-Emma-Thompson’s-house. Real people didn’t live there. Mycroft and his family, on the other hand, hadn’t appreciably changed their views of acceptable London neighborhoods in which to purchase since the days of Jane Austen. He was shocked to discover that East London had many beautifully renovated terrace houses occupied by middle-aged gay professional couples.

“Have you not seen a single episode of East Enders, then?” Greg had asked. Yet, Greg wasn’t particularly anxious to live there. When Mycroft asked, Greg replied “Buffer Zone”, and nodded toward the Lestrade family group portrait from his parents’ 50th.

They were also avoiding the obvious neighborhoods. Mycroft’s colleagues were all happily ensconced in Kensington and Chelsea, so naturally he couldn’t bring himself to look there. Not many police officers lived close in, and the ones that did tended to live in Lambeth, which wasn’t especially appealing to Greg and maybe a bit too close to his current place. Whether they just wished to keep work and home separate or this was some further unconscious aversion, neither could have said.

Mycroft (and Greg for that matter) was astounded by the personal interest he was himself taking in their housing search. He had outsourced to Anthea the purchase of his current home. She had found three listings matching his specifications, arranged for him to tour them consecutively, and he had made his choice. With Greg, though, he was making, well, a home. For the first time, he was envisioning himself in the future, but not seeing himself in his office or trying to avoid an international crisis in some dark ministerial office. He was seeing shared breakfasts and tea on rainy Sundays. He was seeing Greg standing in a light filled window, admiring the view, while he walked up and wrapped his arms around, well, his boyfriend. He wanted to get it right. Additionally, his current home had taught him what he didn’t like in a living space (starting with the fact that Sherlock had his address), and now he was ready to put that knowledge to use. 

So, they looked about in Bloomsbury, which they both liked for various symbolic reasons, but were finding mostly flats. They also cast about a bit in Belgravia. Greg all but ruled out the neighborhood when he saw how few local shops could be sustained by a neighborhood of the empty houses and flats owned by non-domiciled oligarchs. It was also here that Greg discovered that Mycroft did have an upper limit.

“When you purchase with funds from a family trust, you feel a responsibility to the next generation not to be overly self-indulgent.” Greg completely understood the sentiment in theory, but was puzzled as to just exactly who constituted the next generation of Holmes? Probably, there were some second cousins somewhere. There always were in Downton Abbey.

It wasn’t until a few weeks later, when Mycroft made a reference to ordering a case of “young wine that would probably do very well for Rosamund’s twenty-first.” that Greg began to see what Mycroft had in mind. He’d also begun to realize he was dating the bloody Duke of Westminster, if the Duke of Westminster had had a state of the art iPhone and an umbrella gun.

That his nephews’ might be regarded as potential beneficiaries of Holmes family largesse hadn’t occurred to Greg just then either, not until Mycroft had said, 

“Your nephew, Greg.”

“Jamie?”

“Tom.’ You’ve noticed that he’s academically able.”

“Bright lad, yeah.”

“His exams are, of course a few years off, and it certainly is possible for students to come out of an Essex comprehensive with good results...”

“But?”

“That usually is true of children with parents who are...”

“Cleverer?”

“Shall we say, more open to the opportunities that good results can offer.”

“Don’t worry about sparing my feelings. My sister and her husband are some of the least curious people I know. They won’t encourage Tom. They’d think he was getting above himself. So what is your cunning plan?” Mycroft smiled.

“When the time comes, perhaps a couple of years in a good sixth form. Some of the better boarding schools offer them, but if your sister would prefer, there are also some in a few of the London day schools. Tom could live with us during the week.”

“And as an added bonus, he’ll be less likely to fall in with the wrong crowd. We’ll have to bring Gordon round to the idea. Good thing is, he’s scared of Mum.”

So, that was an extra bedroom, then.

Another conversation followed a few weeks later.

“Your nephew, Greg.”

“Tom?”

“Jamie. You may have noticed he might well be...”

“Gay? It is possible, just from a few things he's said. And when we took him to see a matinee in the West End, he was over the moon.”

“One doesn’t like to traffic in stereotypes, but the fondness of our community for musical theatre seems difficult to refute.”

“I’d protest, if I didn’t know the lyrics to “My Fair Lady” by heart. So, what sort of social engineering do you have up your sleeve?”

“It’s just, your brother in law...”

“He won’t be marching in any parades that’s certain. He still refers to you as my colleague.”

“Beyond that, how will he react?”

“I honestly don’t know. The beauty of Gordon, though, is that he won’t suspect.”

“Perhaps we will need to plan to be ...a safe haven at some point.”

Was that yet one more bedroom?

One thing they never considered was having their parents live with them. Mycroft had asked about Greg’s mother. Greg had replied 

“She’s the women I love most in the world, but if I had to live with her, I’d go mental. Plus, no matter how many bedrooms we get, we’d be floor to ceiling ceramic garden gnomes before the month was out.”

His mum had actually been surprisingly okay with their relationship, given her 80 year old world view.

“We’re living in modern times now, aren’t we, love? I mean, everyone knows about the archdeacon. With housing provided by the archdiocese, does he really need a roommate at his age?” Greg suspected that, with a gay son, she had gained a little cachet around the parish hall.

Besides, for a woman of her age, if her son was gay, Mycroft was who she’d want him to bring home: wealthy, educated, devoted to Greg, ready to admire her collection of Royal Wedding memorabilia, and willing to stand her to a monthly cream tea at a nice hotel. They had, in fact, gone a couple of times without Greg when a case had come up last minute.

The latter fact astounded Greg. Mycroft usually found his own parents’ day to day concerns to be mundane and unworthy of attention. He couldn’t quite fathom Mycroft’s interest in his mother’s stories about Jamie’s lost tooth, the early days of her marriage, and the parish building fund. Mycroft hadn’t quite met his eye when he’d asked, but had finally admitted that he loved hearing about Greg’s childhood. Greg suspected, though, that it was his mother’s warmth that drew Mycroft in. 

The idea that Mycroft’s parents might someday live with them had never even come up. Even if Mycroft had suggested it out of duty, Greg would have put his foot down against it, even if only to give Mycroft an out. As it was, Mycroft had made a couple of references to companies “providing seamless eldercare services,” as if his parents were a rather substantial lawn. In fact, it actually sort of eased Greg’s mind a bit to think of the Holmeses that way.


	2. Chapter 2

Their parameters thusly defined, they began visiting homes in earnest. One day, with a couple of free hours after breakfast on a rainy Sunday, they toured a gleaming modern flat at Canary Wharf. What started as a whim became a serious contender by the middle of their time there, with Mycroft getting the listing agent’s particulars and Greg photographing the layout of the rooms and retreating to the ground floor to look at the bicycle storage. By the end of the visit, they had both, independently, gone off the place, and they left abruptly. It wasn’t until months afterward that they had both admitted that what had attracted them to the flat was the master bathroom, with its huge tub with massaging jets and the heated towel racks. They had both then been so horrified by what this attraction said about their impending middle age that they had banished it from consideration. “If I’ve gone this soft, I might as well turn in my badge,” thought Greg. Mycroft had privately imagined what his much admired former boarding school politics master, a sometime member of the Black Watch, would have had to say about heated towel racks.

Would a middle-aged lesbian couple have had such reservations? Greg had wondered. Maybe not. For years after they were finally settled in their eventual home, every time he had to reattach a banister knob or nail a piece of moulding back on, Greg had thought of this couple, named Madeleine and Gemma in his head, casually turning on the gloriously modern central heating or preheating the gleaming stainless steel oven using their mobiles from the Docklands Light Railway on their way home.

Greg was in general, though, rather handy. His father had run a successful ironmonger’s shop, and he had supplied about half of the small builders, fitters, and decorators of western Essex (none of the dodgy ones, mind). Mycroft was quite grateful for this, since it was clear that the level of deceit in the cutthroat London property market was rivaling anything Mycroft had encountered from the various superpowers. And really that was to be expected wasn’t it? Heads of state rarely dealt in their own money. Already, Greg had spotted woodworm in Wandsworth, mold in Marylebone, and a faulty foundation in Fulham. 

At one memorable spot in Maida Vale, they had had high hopes. Mycroft had admired the pristine neoclassical front in the listing photo. That sort of thing meant little to Greg, but he was happy to indulge Mycroft on the period detail. He himself liked the location, a short walk to the canals of Little Venice, and he was beginning to cautiously look forward to more space. He could see himself with a proper study, containing a proper desk, with room for a sandwich, an ale, and his laptop. When he was really feeling self-indulgent, he would envision himself with a lightbox for crime scene photos, but then the voice in his head would say “Steady on, Greg. One foot in front of the other.” 

At any rate, the place looked like it would certainly have enough room to host his family for Boxing Day lunch. The listing agent, a woman called Velda, had said that the home could use “some loving care”. Greg had learned that that was usually estate agent-speak for “hasn’t been remodeled since the ‘70s” Well, that was all right. They could do a bit of decorating. Mycroft was a bit nervous about having a crew in his home and could only use carefully screened tradesmen, but Greg could probably do a week or two of split shifts, so he could have a few hours at home every day to supervise. That would keep Mycroft’s stress levels at a minimum. 

Velda greeted Greg and Mycroft at the door, and ushered them in. 15 minutes later, they practically ran back down the front walk, and scurried to Mycroft’s waiting car. 

“So sorry, urgent business call,” Mycroft said over the shoulder 

“Do keep in touch,” Velda’s cut glass vowels followed them down the drive. Greg opened the door and practically pulled Mycroft in.”

“No bloody chance of that,” said Mycroft, when the door was safely shut. “Williams, home, Code Yellow.” The driver sped off at 10 kph above the listed limit.

“Some loving care, my arse! What that place needed was a codependent billionaire.”

“If that house were a horse, it would have to be put down,” said Mycroft.

“What I don’t get was how they had water damage and dry rot in every closet on all four floors. I didn’t think that was even possible.”

“The crowning glory was the spot under the eaves where the termite damage was encroaching on the bats’ nesting area.”

“You went up there! Jesus, love, you could have come through the floorboards. They were like tissue.”

“Oh, I assumed you’d be there to catch me,” said Mycroft airily. Greg smiled and leaned over to kiss him. For a while. 

“That will always be my intention, love, but the reflexes aren’t what they used to be. Now,” he said, pulling out the box of emergency antibacterial wipes he knew Mycroft kept in the pocket beneath the left hand door handle, “if you saw termites, we need to wipe our shoes.”

“How romantic.”

They decided to circle back round across the river. Greg looked wistfully at the food offerings in Peckham, but the transit connections weren’t great. Of the two of them, he was probably the more adventurous eater, having lived and worked in more diverse environments. He could name three investigations (in alphabetical order, by name of the killer: Abernathy, Krumholz, and Ledbetter) that had only been possible due to the hampers of various chutneys sent in by DS Sen’s mother. Okay, the bottles of lager his dad had slipped in hadn’t gone amiss either. 

Mycroft had nearly had his palate ruined by boarding school dinners and rubber chicken affairs of state, but Greg could usually nudge him off the beaten path and into a little spice. Come to think of it, that was true of their sex life as well. 

They were both really surprised by how many places they saw in Battersea that seemed to fit the bill. The Victorian era brick manse that they looked at was recently redone, with a lovely back garden. After their last experience, they were cautious, but somewhat favorably impressed. As they walked down the front steps, a voice seemed to be calling to them over the hedge. 

“Hallo there!” Mycroft turned to Greg alarmed. 

“Can that person mean us? Surely not?” A face popped up. It was a carefully groomed woman in her forties with remarkable teeth.

“Hallo! Have you been looking at Alison and Jeremy’s place?” Greg looked at Mycroft, whose eyebrows were raised to his hairline, i.e., quite a long distance, indeed. Greg realized that they needed some kind of modus operandi. He quickly appointed himself Chief Spokesman in Charge of All Dealings with Neighbors and Other Miscellaneous Humans. He walked forward to the hedge, and extended a hand.

“I suppose so. I’m Greg and this is Mycroft. You like the neighborhood, then?”

“I’m Nicola. Oh, my yes. The park nearby, lots of shops. Really, lovely neighbors all round. Such a shame Alison and Jeremy had to move to Wiltshire, but Jeremy had such a good job offer, and Alison’s mother is really very poorly, and they needed to be close to her.” Nicola continued on for several minutes about the exact nature of Alison’s mother’s complaint. The description even had Greg a little queasy. Mycroft was motionless and was no longer making eye contact. Greg suspected that he was reciting the Iliad in the original Greek in his head to calm himself. “…and then they had to scrape out her – oh, there’s my husband. You must meet him. Roddy! Darling, come meet the new neighbors!”

“Really, we’ve just had a bit of a look round…oh, how are you then, mate?” Another face had popped up in the hedge next to Nicola’s, and another hand was extended through the hedge. 

“Roddy Partridge. Nice to meet you.” 

“Are these the new neighbors?” shouted a voice behind them, causing Mycroft to leap half a meter in the air. Two blond heads appeared in the hedge on the other side of the walk. “I’m Kev, and this is Ken.” Greg didn’t whirl around in time to see which bloke was Kev and which was Ken. He paused for a minute, trying to figure out how to get around that nightmare-worthy level of awkwardness, when Nicola saved him.

“They’ve been looking at Jeremy and Alison’s.”

“Smashing,” said Kev or Ken. “If you’ve completed the sale by Tuesday week, you can come to our barbecue. Oh, you’re not vegetarians, are you?”

“No, but we are cannibals,” muttered Mycroft. Greg shot him the look he usually reserved for teenagers loitering near the entrance of the Apple Store. 

“We’re still just looking. Lovely home, though.”

“Oh, yes. Alison had an eye for proportion,” said Ken or Kev. 

“I’m afraid we have to shove off, but lovely to meet all of you,” said Greg over his shoulder, as Mycroft practically pulled him down the walk and into the car.

“Most disturbing.”

“They do come on a bit strong, but they were just being friendly.”

“Suspiciously so. You can’t think that sort of behavior is normal?”

“Well, in certain neighborhoods, it might be. People who get on well tend to become active in their community.”

“I find it entirely irregular.”

“Right then, I know you know more about them from that visit than their mums do, so tell me the worst.”

“Nicola Partridge is obviously a bit more middle class in background. Attended university, but majored in something completely impractical, probably English literature. She taught it for a while, before retiring, presumably when Roddy achieved some particular level of income. Roddy is self-made, in sales, perhaps telecommunication satellites, but also possibly large servers. Quite successful. “ Mycroft looked thoughtful.

“And Kev and Ken? By the way, which was Kev, and which was Ken?” 

“They are obviously architects. Did you see their modern addition? No responsible professional would have allowed them to do that. They must have designed it themselves. As to which was Kev and which was Ken, I’ve already deleted that. The shorter one, though, is engaged in some sort of dalliance with an irrigation consultant.”

Two days later, Greg asked Mycroft for a pen. When Mycroft opened his briefcase, Greg saw complete dossiers on Nicola and Roddy. 

“Was that strictly necessary?” 

“Well, perhaps my suspicions of their behavior toward us were, shall we say, unfounded. Roddy, however, appears to have been offering kickbacks to government procurement officers, mostly on shire councils. Our people will move on him tonight.”

Perhaps the Holmes-Lestrade household needed a bit of a cooling off period from the barbecues of Battersea.

They circled back round again to North London. They both had reservations about the celebrity factor. Still, Primrose Hill had a number of homes that fit their criteria, and when they found a semi-detached place with both sides for sale, they set up an appointment. Neither really had much hope, though. Greg was secretly afraid of a repeat of the Maida Vale situation. Mycroft lived in fear of a repeat of the Battersea situation, and Greg quickly flipped past the webpages that described Primrose Hill as a close-knit village. 

They arrived at the house on a street that had a moderate amount of traffic. The house blended in with the surrounding houses, and was just a block from a bustling street with all the necessary shops. It had enough activity that Mycroft’s desire not to be noticed looked entirely possible, and yet, he was overjoyed to notice, there was nary a neighbor in sight. The interior of both sides of the house was beautiful. Large windows with preserved cornices let in a great deal of natural light. Several rooms had floor-to-ceiling built in bookshelves. The kitchen was open plan, which Greg really liked. Two rooms on the first floor looked as if they would make promising studies for the both of them. 

Greg took a walk around the neighborhood. There were a couple of decent locals and a coffee shop nearby. He was ready to sign on the dotted line. Best of all, Regent’s Park was practically next door. 

Therein lay the potential spoiler, however. Just the other side of the park, in a Baker St. flat somehow newly redone to look poky and poorly lit, lay Sherlock. Well, Sherlock, John, Rosie, Mrs. Hudson, and Rosie’s part time nanny, Bill Wiggins, formerly of several of greater London’s finer lock-ups. 

It was, of course, unthinkable, Mycroft thought. Sherlock would think Mycroft had deliberately chosen the place to spy on him. He would throw a year’s worth of tantrums when he heard. He might begin sabotaging CCTV all the way round the park.

Greg worried that on a weekly basis he would awaken to Sherlock standing at the foot of his bed, anxious to get a case, continue a case, prove a case existed. The idea that that might happen while he and Mycroft were in the midst of something coital made him shudder. Even worse would the idea that he might interrupt a Sunday morning lie-in. The best part of moving in together was the Sunday morning lie-in. There were other good points to be sure, but in Greg’s mind, they were fringe benefits to the main event.

In the end, they consulted John during a clandestine pub evening, when Sherlock had Rosie at a “Tunes for Toddlers” class.

“So you’re thinking of moving closer to us? Can’t say I think that’s good. Where exactly: Marylebone, St John’s Wood? Surely not Maida Vale, Mycroft.”

“Primrose Hill.”

“But that’s the other side of the park. “

“Right, mate, but it’s the same distance to Baker St. from some of those other places you mentioned. “

“But it’s a large expanse of greenery to our north. To Sherlock, it might as well be the Swiss Alps. He’d never cross it. Yesterday, he asked me if Hampstead Heath was closer than Dover.”

Greg and Mycroft looked at each other.

“We could give it a go.”

“If it turns out to be a mistake, we could probably sell without too much of a loss”

So they bought the property. The second buffer house would be used for storage, guests, and in a pinch, a safe house. If Mycroft had hoped to consign Greg’s surprisingly large collection of band t-shirts and spare bicycle parts there, well, Greg hoped no less for at least one of Mycroft’s sets of armor. He had always thought that more than one was really overkill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You all knew, if only subconsciously, that Mycroft keeps emergency anti-bacterial wipes in a compartment in the car.


	3. Chapter 3

Another change of plans arose when it came time to execute the transfer of deeds. Greg had remembered signing a lot of paperwork during the purchase and sale of his first home. When you bought property with a Holmes, this apparently tripled. This also required at least one preliminary meeting with Mycroft’s solicitors, Cuthbert, Cuthbert, and Cuthbert (An old family firm, Mycroft had said). 

On arriving in the firm’s chambers in a small back street near Hackney, they were ushered into the office of Ambrose Cuthbert (“Remarkably well adjusted given that his parents clearly hated him,” Mycroft had said). Greg hadn’t really expected this. The dark wood paneling and built in bookcases, sure. There were also piles of books covering most of the hideous mustard colored shag carpeting. A tabby cat, whose orange fur clashed garishly with the carpet, sat in the window, in a small space between two stacks of books. The overhead light seemed not to work when Greg flicked the switch. The only light in the room came from the windows, apparently last cleaned during the tenure of a much earlier Cuthbert, and from a dusty green desk lamp. Mycroft seemed to think their surroundings were perfectly normal, and he seated himself in a leather chair with a torn seat cushion. Greg sat next to him, on what used to be a dining chair with a cane back and a foam rubber seat.

The door opened, and a slightly pudgy man in his late thirties with mousy brown hair and a wide smile came in. 

“Ah, Mr. Holmes. I hope you haven’t been waiting long,” At this point, the man who was presumably Ambrose Cuthbert stepped into the room, promptly tripped over a stack of books, and lay sprawled at their feet. He was back up in two seconds. “Oops, spot of bother, that. At any rate, lovely to see you again, Mr. Holmes. And you must be Mr., or should I say, Inspector Lestrade.” 

He shook hands with them both and picked his way through the piles on the way to his desk. “Let me see,” he said, absently petting the cat while rummaging through the six separate 30 cm piles of folders on his desk. “Ah, yes.”

He picked up an entire pile and placed it in the center of his desk with a thunk. “Now, Mr. Holmes had said you wished to redo your wills as well.”

Ambrose then began to go through all of the minute details of the arrangement: what would happen to the property in the unhappy event that Mr. Holmes predeceased Inspector Lestrade, if Inspector Lestrade predeceased Mr. Holmes, if either case occurred while the elder Mrs. Lestrade was living, if either event happened while she was dead, if either event happened while the elder Holmeses were living, if they were dead, or if they were living, but chose to domicile in the US while questing for a gold medal under the auspices of the International Country Line Dancing Association.

Even Mycroft was beginning to get restive. Several times he began to interject

“We have a great deal of faith in your attention to the particulars...”, but Ambrose continued his monologue, oblivious to the pain around him.

A full inch of paperwork was devoted to the implications for the family trust and Mr. Sherlock (“He and I were at school together you know. Well, one of his schools, I should say. I think it was his third. Jolly good fun he was. No one will ever forget the day he deduced who was pilfering the towels in the staff bath by arranging for the shower to spray the culprit with blue dye. And the day he arranged to film the cook, Mr. Hargraves, having a bit of naughty fun with Madame Defarge, the French instructor, in the walk in refrigerator, well that brought down the house. Mind, the school did get a bit of stick from the Public Health Services on that one. Still, good times, good memories.”).

As Ambrose was describing the insurance arrangements in case Sherlock caused a revolution in a developing nation while one or the other of them was still living, Greg began to get goosebumps. He whispered to Mycroft,

“So help me, if you die first and leave me to clear up after Sherlock, I’ll see to it that your headstone reads ‘Beloved Tosser’.” Mycroft merely smiled inscrutably.

Ambrose had just launched into the arrangements that would occur if they were simultaneously lost at sea, leaving the proper authorities unable to determine a survivor, when he momentarily lost his train of thought.

“Where was I, oh yes, burial at sea. You know,” he said, chuckling, “this would all be simpler, if you were married, of course.”

“Simpler?” Greg tried to keep his tone neutral.

“Much so. There’s so much standard estate law that we could probably cut this pile in half.”

Greg looked at Mycroft. Mycroft looked at Greg. Mycroft had not become the UK’s top counter intelligence analyst by failing to seize an opportunity. 

“Do you know, Ambrose, I think perhaps we shall take that under advisement.”

“Oh indeed. Are you sure you won’t just go over the provisions in case of property damage caused by public mayhem?” Mycroft smiled blankly. “Right then. You’re my last appointment of the day, what. I’ll walk you out.” They exited the office, with Ambrose managing to trip and fall only the once more. They stepped into the parking lot. 

“Well, you’ll just let me know about the final arrangements then. Musn’t keep Kylie waiting. Toodle pip.” With that, Ambrose climbed into a late model Porsche, gunned the engine, turned smoothly, and sped off.

“Well,” said Mycroft, “that was unexpected.”

On the ride back to Greg’s, where they had elected to stay that evening, they were both silent until the last block. Greg cleared his throat.

“It’s insane to get married to reduce our paperwork, innit?”

Mycroft had always secretly loved the way Greg’s accent retreated eastward when he was nervous.

“The Tudors married for far worse reasons”

“Mycroft?”

“Hmmm?”

“Not comforting.”

“Perhaps not. The thing is, Greg...” Here, Mycroft paused, staring straight ahead and steeling himself. “I am sure about this. Sure the way I was sure about the trajectory of the pound after Brexit. Sure the way that I am sure about Hunter wellies and Bakewell tarts...” Here Mycroft had broken off, because Greg had embraced him tightly and was kissing him insistently. This will be the third of my regular drivers who will not be able to look me in the eye without giggling,” thought Mycroft, before he gave himself over to Greg. When they came up for air, Mycroft said, “I take it you are sure too then?”

“The thing is, Mycroft, I’m the marrying kind. I tend to make up my mind early, one way or the other. I’ve known you for a while, a good while now. That first night we, I mean to say, after your sister, well… (why can I not complete a sentence?). I knew we had something to offer each other, that we worked well together. I was ready to have as much of a relationship as you wanted. I think what I didn’t know, what I had to learn, was that you had my back. Most of my other relationships with people, they’re pretty one way, aren’t they? But you, you see me. I don’t need to protect myself, because you do that for me. I know now that not only do I want this, but that it will be the best thing for me, as well.“ 

Mycroft felt his heart grow three sizes that day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made out my will once. It is indeed true that the lawyers want every contingency covered, including a plan for what will happen to all of your stuff if the entire family is wiped out in a freak accident.


	4. Chapter 4

They decided to marry on Valentine’s Day…well, that was the day that the registry office was free. The office always added extra slots that day, anticipating a rush, but the date, Greg and Mycroft noted ruefully, had too much irony even for the Millennials who were the registry office’s target market.

Greg’s mother was quite chuffed to hear the news. She had never felt it quite right that their Greg wasn’t settled, when it was so much a part of his nature, and really his Mycroft was a nice lad. Formal to be sure, maybe could make a bit more eye contact, but really likely to be good for Greg. She’d have to remind her sister’s boy Gaz to be on his best behavior at the wedding. She might just mention to Greg that maybe they didn’t need an open bar at the reception.

Mycroft’s parents were initially a bit taken aback. Part of their shaky rapprochement with Mycroft had included a mention of his relationship with Lestrade. They had previously met Sherlock’s policeman once or twice. He had seemed quite unremarkable and quite outside Mycroft’s usual set. Well, to the extent that Mycroft could be said to have a set. Mycroft had done nothing to forward the acquaintance, and they had assumed it would blow over. A wedding announcement, they hadn’t expected. Still, it suggested that Mycroft was reaching a normal adult milestone. Given how thoroughly such things had eluded both of their sons, they decided to embrace it, even if they suspected it wouldn’t last.

Another reason that Mycroft’s mother was particularly happy was the fact that Mycroft’s marriage gave him the right to fully control the last quarter of the family trust without consulting her, and she was relieved to give up that responsibility.

Equally relieved at this change of the relevant Holmes were the managers of the family trust. When the engagement became generally known, Greg and Mycroft received a large hamper from Fortnum and Mason, with a card signed by Ambrose Cuthbert, Cyril Cuthbert, and, in the corner, in a spidery hand, was the signature of old Evelyn Cuthbert, who, these days, rarely left his suite of rooms at the Twilight Village Home for Retired Freemasons in Hampshire. 

Greg and Mycroft would both have been perfectly happy with the registry office. Their mothers had different ideas. Both would have favored a church wedding, and they tried their level best. Neither were particularly religious, but in their day, the church had been the center of community life, and they were each unwilling to have their sons excluded.

Greg’s mum wrote a strongly worded email to the local bishop, with a cc to the archdeacon, detailing why nice young gay couples should be allowed to marry in the church. Well, rather, she dictated it, and her oldest grandson Tom sent it off for her. Greg was only just able to wrap his head around the realization that his mother, Phyllis Lestrade, nee Drummond, mother of three, grandmother of two, ironmonger’s widow, stalwart provider of pineapple upside down cake for the St Dunstan’s Bring and Buy, and twice past president of the Ilford Garden Club, was now Phyllis Lestrade, LGBT Rights activist. He could not have been more touched if she had marched in a parade for him (something he would not have allowed, since her hip would certainly play up.). The bishop sent a form email in reply. 

Mycroft’s mother had requested a face to face with the local vicar. She had put it to him rather bluntly that a Holmes family donation had been the source of the village church’s roof for the last 4 generations. Surely now that the oldest scion was marrying, a church wedding was the least they could do. The vicar had said that his hands were tied on that score, most regrettable, if he’d had his own way, mind, but alas etc., etc. The vicar didn’t really care one way or the other about Mycroft Holmes, who appeared every other Christmas on sufferance, but he was a pragmatic man, and the sexton had noticed a leak last month.

“You know, though, Mycroft,” Greg had said, “If we got our mums together, they might do a bit of damage to canon law.” 

Mycroft had considered this, and decided the time had come. The Church had been coddled on this issue far too long. Before he unleashed the power of combined maternal wrath, however, he had about 18 months of preparatory groundwork to do with maybe four key players. Welby would need to be given a bit of spine, a couple of archbishops might be encouraged to retire, a committee would need to be formed, and all of that took a bit of time, paperwork etc. Besides, he reminded Greg, their mothers had yet to meet.

They had been pondering the best way to introduce their families. 

“Mum has met Sherlock and John, just the once,” Greg said. “The fact that they followed me to her house in the hopes I was on a case didn’t make the best first impression. But John complimented her brandy snaps, so she was mollified.”

“There is though, the matter of introducing our parents.”

“I don’t suppose we could just let them meet on the day of the ceremony,” said Greg cautiously, knowing full well that that was what he would prefer.

“No, no,” said Mycroft, wistfully.

“Really, that’s just not done, is it?”

“No,” said Mycroft, clearing his throat. “Perhaps some sort of neutral ground.”

“A restaurant, maybe. Not so crowded they can’t hear.”

“But crowded enough to encourage decorum.”

Mycroft had Anthea make a reservation. She chose the backroom of a gastropub in Hampstead (“Neutral ground,” she had said.) There, he and Greg introduced Mycroft’s parents to Greg’s mother. In order to make certain that their parents did not have spare moments for idle, unorchestrated conversation (they both agreed no good could come from that), Mycroft and Greg quickly announced their plan to have the wedding at Chandos House, an exclusive venue in central London meant as a sort of consolation prize for not having a church wedding. Promotional literature was passed round, the preserved Georgian interior duly admired. Both men stressed the idea of a small ceremony performed by a registrar, with a few friends and family in attendance. Each had at least two sets of cousins whose presence was unthinkable. By projecting an air of quiet simplicity, Mycroft hoped to ease his mother into the idea that Francesca and her poorly trained wolfhounds could just get an announcement after the fact. The fact that the wolfhounds would need their own announcements, addressed to each, was something Mycroft had decided to leave to Mummy. Greg was hoping that things would be over and done with before Gaz and his rugby lads got wind of the affair. 

Valentine’s Day arrived. Not ones to stand on tradition, Greg and Mycroft spent the night together at the new house, where their bedroom was unpacked, but little else was. As Greg awoke, with Mycroft’s shoulder pressed against his, he felt happy and certain. He showered and brushed his teeth. Mycroft went to use one of the baths down the hall to save time, returning to dress in their suite. Greg put on his trousers one leg at a time, just as he did every other morning. He buttoned and tucked in his shirt, and fastened his belt. 

He had no explanation, then, for why his hands were shaking too much to tie his tie. Mycroft reached around him, smiling, and did it for him. 

“You’ve got my back,” said Greg with emotion.

“Always. You will excuse me, dear heart, if I don’t take tea. I don’t think I can hold a cup.”

They made it through the ceremony. Greg’s mum cried, as did Bill and Mrs. Hudson. At the reception, the group was small enough that no one made a scene, but large enough that disastrous conversational pairings were mostly avoided. Sherlock had been prevented from making any kind of toast via a threat of revoking his passport. 

As Mycroft and Greg were preparing to cut the cake, Sherlock and John sidled up.

“Ambrose is punching above his weight with that young woman,” said John.

“He’s remarkably well-adjusted, given that his parents obviously detested him,” said Sherlock. He leaned over to the grooms and said, “Don’t look now. Old man Cuthbert is making eyes at Mrs. Lestrade.”

Greg looked over toward his family’s table. He had shaken hands, very gingerly, with the eldest Cuthbert in the reception line.

“No worries. Mum could snap him like a twig.”

“True. But she might wish to continue the acquaintance. He knows his camellias from his hydrangea,” said Mycroft. Really, if anyone deserved to outlive a wealthy, but infirm, husband, it was his beloved mother in law. Cyril and Ambrose wouldn’t raise a fuss. The weekly trek to Hampshire had grown wearing.  
After the ceremony, they headed to Heathrow for their short flight to Oslo. On the surface, it of course seemed insane to honeymoon in Norway in February. Both Sally and John had actually said to Greg, in separate conversations,

“You lot are completely insane to honeymoon in Norway in February.”

Greg and Mycroft thought differently. They could visit a city, which they both liked, at a time when there were few tourists, which Mycroft liked. There were a lot of winter concerts, which Mycroft also liked. Greg joined a group from the hotel that was going ice fishing, about which he had been curious for a long time. As Mycroft had suspected, it did involve a lot of beer. Afterwards, as Greg lay collapsed on the bed, still dressed in the shirt and boxers he hadn’t had the energy to remove, Mycroft gently stroked his hair and noted that when Greg overindulged, he had a lovely singing voice. The effect was, of course, rather spoilt by the slurring of all of the lyrics, but then again, the Arsenal fan chant repertoire was not really redeeming poetry to begin with.

They took a few days to go up to Trondheim. On the way, they were stunned by the stark beauty of the snowy fjords. Standing on top of a ridge in the pale winter light, looking down at the clear water surrounded by snow covered hills, Mycroft could feel the wind whistling past his ears. With his hand in Greg’s, he felt that they might be the only two people left in the universe. The Northern Lights were icing on the cake.

Mostly though, going to Scandinavia in the winter meant long, cold nights and excuses to spend hours curled together under thick duvets, kissing, caressing, dozing, and occasionally ordering plates of cold salmon and vodka from the hotel kitchen. If the weak winter sunlight was a bit kinder to aging physiques, that was all to the good, although neither would have admitted in public that that might be a primary motivation. Mycroft felt he could never get tired of the way Greg looked at him up and down as they lay together the half light, never get tired of the way Greg’s hands felt as they slid under his shirt and up his back, and never get tired of the way his heart actually skipped a beat as Greg’s hands slipped to unfasten his belt. He could hardly believe that this was to be his lot from now on. 

All too soon, the trip was over. When they returned, they began unpacking the new house in earnest. Greg supervised the refitting of one of the bathrooms. It had a sunken tub with massaging jets. By unspoken agreement, there were no heated towel racks.

Against his better judgment, Mycroft gave Sherlock his address. His brother visited once, announced that he simply could not fit in any of the rooms due to the sheer volume of mundane marital contentment, and stalked out, followed by John, who said, over his shoulder,

“He means a very hearty congratulations to you both.”

When the door had shut, Greg cleared his throat. 

“He’s right, you know.” Mycroft, who had been looking out the window at Sherlock’s retreat, turned and smiled.

“Yes, he is.”

Mycroft noted that one of the neighbors left for the office at the same time that he did in the morning. After six months, by mutual agreement, they began to exchange waves of greeting in the morning. They continued to do this, with no words exchanged, for the next year. All in all, thought Mycroft, this new living situation was very promising.


End file.
